


Kiss me, Sco

by kiyotara



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, World War I, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyotara/pseuds/kiyotara
Summary: “Close your eyes,” Blake said, his voice no louder than a murmur.“Why?”“Kiss me, Sco.”Schofield was still for a moment, arms tightening around Blake’s body. He had never done this before. He had heard of others who did this. In the trenches, in a world of visual squalor and rotting corpses, little gestures like closing a dead comrade’s eyes or holding his hands were what made life worth fighting for. But the dying kiss was more special. Beyond sympathy, it was a signal of trust, loyalty, and responsibility. To give one a dying kiss would mean to take a piece of him with you and to wear his name like a family, or perhaps like a shield.An indestructible shield.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Kiss me, Sco

April of 1917, the morning skies were so grey. Dirt-baked grey. Sweat-soaked grey. Dying grey. Schofield ran his fingers lightly over Blake’s tousled hair. Their uniforms were caked with muck and their bodies an oily mass. There were dark spots blooming on top of Blake’s tunic, where red spiral streams of blood could be seen pooling steadily on the ground. Silence. Schofield didn’t know whether Blake would live. 

Just a few minutes ago, No Man’s Land was filled with the droning of plane engines, the dismemberment of air so loud the wind seemed to ripple along with it. Two British planes against a German one. There was clearly no hope for the German. Soon, the hum of the German engine faltered and the plane coasted silently towards the earth. Instead of dropping down straight, however, the plane reappeared again at the gate, where Schofield and Blake were standing. Watching the plane closed in their direction, both quickly threw themselves on the ground. Then, the plane screamed and smashed into a barn just a few hand lengths behind their bodies. A braid of smoke poured from the plane and fire billowed from within it. The wind was coarse with the acrid taste of gasoline and the cutting scream of someone - the pilot. 

Blake moved first, grabbing the pilot’s arms and letting out a low curse as his right leg touched the searing, hot metallic surface of the plane. Schofield then tore open the pilot’s strap and together they wrenched him free, dragging him from the remains of the cockpits and pulling his body through the smoke. 

The pilot was in obvious agony, his mouth spatting out German words and his blue eyes darting back and forth between the two younger British. 

Unsure of what to do, Schofield turned to Blake, “We should put him out of his misery.” 

They shared a look. 

Then, Blake kneeled beside the pilot, gently cradling his head on his knees. Blake looked up pointedly at Schofield and urged, “No. Get him some water. He needs water.”

This prompted Schofield to walk towards the water pump, his back to Blake and the pilot. The squeaking noise of the pump drowned out the voices behind him. There was a strange silence from the scene that, moments ago, was filled with human voices. Then suddenly - shouting pierced the air. Schofield turned back and saw Blake screaming in agony. Out of the confusion of grey and the child-like cries of his partner, Schofield started forward. Panic slowly etched his feature as Schofield saw a bloody knife being pulled out of Blake’s abdomen. Then, Schofield grabbed his rifle and fired two shots at the pilot, killing him outright. Meanwhile, Blake wobbled weakly away from the pilot’s body, his hands clumsily checking the injury. 

Blake dropped to his knees as the wound began to bleed fast. Before Blake could fall entirely on the ground, Schofield caught his shoulder and gently put the younger boy’s body on top of himself. 

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Schofield whispered, his hands wadding the white bandage and pushing it hard against Blake’s tunic. The younger boy cried out in pain immediately and Schofield tried to calm him, “It’s alright, it’s going to be alright. We need to stand up.” 

Blake was usually not very heavy, so Schofield picked him up. They really needed to go soon, for this place was dangerous and Blake couldn’t be left by himself. Despite his effort, Blake thrashed savagely out of his hold while screaming frantically in pain. 

“Stop, stop it! I can’t”

“We have to get to an Aid post. I can carry you.”

“No--Put me down! Put me down, you bastard, please! Let me sit...”

They fell backwards. Blake’s whole face was colourless now. The bandage was scarlet, sopping with blood. Blake was visibly weakening and a shiver ran through Schofield’s body. 

When Blake is taken away, he would have to do this mission alone. When the younger boy is gone, he wouldn’t have one friend left…

The anguish of solitude rose up within him, Schofield begged, “We can’t. We have to go. Remember? Your brother. We have to-”

“You can start on without me. I’ll catch up,” Blake mumbled softly as his eyes began to haze dangerously. 

Then Schofield was up again, heaving Blake upward with all his might. The younger boy howled in pain. Schofield tried and tried but Blake was a dead weight. He sat them both down bitterly. 

“We have to find your brother.”

“You’ll recognize him. Looks like me...a bit older.”

Silence. The grey glow of the morning threw up the lines on Blake’s pale, drawn face and the dark shadows under his tired eyes. The heavyweight of a dying, cold body pushed down on Schofield’s chest. Blake’s breathing became weaker and the boy asked, “Am I dying?”

Schofield gazed around the field, then looked down stiffly. At that moment, he felt very miserable. It was impossible that Blake -- this young, innocent boy with his awful timing of jokes and oversharing of his personal life, Blake, who without a second of hesitation stayed and bravely saved him out of the enemy trap, Blake with whom he so comfortably let his guard down -- it was impossible that perhaps he would not see the boy again. 

“Yes...yes, I think you are,” Schofield said, his voice implying that he too was slowly realizing, withdrawing himself from futile hope. 

Understanding crept its way onto Blake’s eyebrow and an “Oh” formed on the boy’s lips. 

“Will you write to my mum for me?”

“I will.”

“Tell her I wasn’t scared.”

“Yes.”

“And find my brother for me.”

Schofield nodded, clasping the boy’s hand in his. A drop of tear fell down the bridge of Blake’s dirt-smeared nose before rolling, like quotation marks, along his cheek. It wasn’t Blake’s tears. Rather, Schofield found his throat parching up and another drop of tear dangling dangerously, threatening to slide down his eyes.

Schofield could almost feel Death walking towards them. 

“Sco?” the boy sobbed quietly.

“Yes?”

“Embrace me...”

Schofield wrapped his arms around Blake’s shivering body, holding onto the lad’s fragile frame tightly. He had no idea what to say. 

“Close your eyes,” Blake said, his voice no louder than a murmur.

“Why?”

“Kiss me, Sco.”

Schofield was still for a moment, arms tightening around Blake’s body. He had never done this before. He had heard of others who did this. In the trenches, in a world of visual squalor and rotting corpses, little gestures like closing a dead comrade’s eyes or holding his hands were what made life worth fighting for. But the dying kiss was more special. Beyond sympathy, it was a signal of trust, loyalty, and responsibility. To give one a dying kiss would mean to take a piece of him with you and to wear his name like a family, or perhaps like a shield. 

An indestructible shield. 

Schofield shifted to the side so his hands could lift Blake’s head up closer to his face. He kissed Blake three times. The first kiss was on Blake’s forehead and Schofield said, “that’s from your Mother.” Then he kissed the young boy again on his closed eyelids and said, “that’s from Joseph.” 

Before Blake could take his last breath, Schofield placed his lips gingerly on the boy’s lips. “That’s from me,” he said, not letting Death greet the young boy. 

There they were, two men, like a couple of girls. But then, there was no one about and the matter was a sacred one between them.

Between Will and Tom. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at 4:44 AM and was really excited to just dump it here lol. Inspired by 1917's original screenplay and WW1's dying kiss (yes, it is real).


End file.
